Dexter: Memories Never Die
by jetspecter
Summary: Following the events of Season 4 of Dexter coupled with a parallel timeline that sets Stitchers in Miami instead of L.A., The FBI enlists Stitchers help on the Trinity Killer case, and Kirsten stitches into Rita. Dexter finds Kirsten's temporal dysplasia and the science behind stitching fascinating, and the story tangles the lives of Miami Metro Homicide with the Stitchers team.
1. Chapter 1

Dexter x Stitchers

 _This contains both Dexter and Stitchers_ [SPOILERS] _so readers beware!_

 _This fanfiction is written primarily from Dexter's perspective following the events of Season 4, where Rita is killed by the Trinity Killer, coupled with a parallel timeline that sets Stitchers in Miami instead of L.A. from Kirsten's perspective, jumping right into the early events of season 1. The FBI enlists Stitchers help on the Trinity Killer case, and Kirsten stitches into Rita. 'Ships include, but are not limited to; Dexter/Kirsten, Deb/Quinn, Deb/Camille, Deb/Fisher, Camille/Fisher, Batista/Laguerta, Batista/Maggie,_ _Cameron/Kirsten.)_

Miami Metro was lit warmly with the morning sunshine, the case board was plastered with photographs of the Trinity Killer's murders, and the tip-line telephones rang loudly over the speculating conversations of determined policemen.

Detective Joey Quinn sat at his desk, listening intently to the audio file playing on his laptop and scowling, his worried mind deep in thought.

" _This is Dexter Morgan, 3319 Meadow Lane."  
_ " _What is your emergency?"  
_ " _I just got home and found my wife dead in the bathtub."  
_ " _Did you say your wife is dead?"  
_ " _Yes, I did. She had an approximately 1-inch incision midway up her right thigh, dissecting the femoral artery-"  
_  
Forensics Specialist Vince Masuka, equipped with an eclair in one hand and licking the remains of donut from the other, overheard the 911 recording and approached Quinn's desk.

"Hey, is that-" Masuka began, but he was cut off when Sergeant Angel Batista walked up behind them, also intrigued. "What is this?"

"It's Dexter's 911 call," said Detective Quinn. "Here, listen."

Quinn replayed the audio file for the two men. It wasn't until Dexter began describing the incision that Batista leaned in and tapped the trackpad on Quinn's laptop, stopping the playback.

"Alright. That's enough," Batista said, his tone firm and disapproving. "Dexter was obviously in shock."

Quinn wasn't convinced. "'Midway up her right thigh'? 'Dissecting her femoral artery'?"

Batista was quick to defend the blood spatter specialist. "Habit of precision."

"His wife just _died_ ," Quinn said in disbelief. "He sounds like he's submitting a lab report. Seriously, the next door neighbor, the guy with the, you know, forehead? He was more broken up about Rita than Dexter was."

Masuka looked around uncomfortably, taking the opportunity to fill his mouth with donut to excuse his absence of input on the heavy subject. Batista sighed, shaking his head. "So?"

"So it's weird, that's all," Quinn said, shrugging, closing the laptop.

At that moment, Maria Laguerta, the Lieutenant of Miami Metro Homicide, approached Quinn's desk to break up the meeting.

"What are we working on here?" Her tone was authoritative, and she suspiciously eyed the three of them as she crossed her arms.

"Not Rita," Masuka said quickly, wiping off eclair crumbs.

Laguerta looked expectantly at Batista for an explanation, who gave in immediately.

"It's Dexter's 911 call," he said, frowning.

Laguerta tensed up. "Did you hear me or not? I said the case is with the FBI now." She looked around, gravely meeting eyes with each offender before she left, strutting off in her click-clack heels, shutting the door to her office behind her.

Quinn cracked a smile. "You should have taken her on a honeymoon," he said to Batista, chuckling. Batista rolled his eyes, excusing himself from the conversation.

Now that he and Quinn were alone, Masuka leaned in.

"You were right about one thing-that neighbor Elliot being all broke up about Rita. I'm thinking now that there's some things I shouldn't have told Dexter."

Quinn blinked. "What? What shouldn't you have told him?"

"About a significant exchange of saliva I witnessed, as in, a kiss." Masuka looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

"Elliot and Rita?" Quinn leaned in, his brow furrowed.

"Yeah," Masuka nodded.

"And Dexter knew."

"Yeah." Masuka looked down, guilty. "If I'd known she was gonna… I should have kept my big mouth shut."

* * *

200 feet underground beneath the Chinese restaurant, _Jade Fog_ , the former CIA assassin and current leader of the Stitchers program Maggie Baptiste stood against the railing, going over the Trinity Killer case file to mentally prepare for the briefing. The lab was quiet; the filter inside the massive tank in the center of the gallery floor whirred softly, bubbling. In the other room, the quantum computer hummed steadily. The corpse cassette was occupied by a petite, pretty blonde woman.

The Stitchers director poured over the photographs from the crime scene, observing the reports from Miami Metro Homicide's lab. _The file is thick with notes_ , Maggie thought, _but that is typical of these jobs that come through many hands - first the local station, then federal investigators, and now the National Security Agency, who has delegated the assignment to the Stitchers Program. Just our luck._

Just then, the cranking pulley system and accompanying _ding!_ of the elevator caused Maggie to look up just as the doors opened.

Kirsten Clark, the Stitcher and newest recruit to the program, and her roommate and talented computer hacker Camille Engelson stepped out, engaged in a mostly one-sided conversation.

"So you _do_ see what I'm saying, right?" Camille jabbed at Kirsten, who rolled her eyes.

"Camille, I get it-"

"Good morning," Maggie addressed the pair as they approached, interrupting. She gave them a firm stare, her dark eyes intimidating.

"Good morning," Kirsten and Camille said in glance-exchanging unison.

Maggie checked her watch. "I trust you're both ready for a new assignment, but I want everyone to be here for the announcement."

Kirsten stepped up to the corpse cassette and peered inside. The woman was young, and beautiful, and her blonde hair and soft feminine features reminded Kirsten of her mother. Kirsten's mind traveled back to distorted memories of her mother, the last time she ever saw her Kirsten had been soaking in a tub, hooked up to her father's makeshift stitch machinery, and on the receiving end was her mom, who lay on the bed, convulsing in her coma. She felt the electric shock pulsing through her, and the terror as she entered her mom's unconscious memories. The fear of being lost in someone else's experience. The reality sunk in that her own experience has been tainted, dismantled, paralyzed. She needed to find out more about the alleged suicide of her stand-in father figure, Ed Clark, and her real parents stitching research, and what part Kirsten was meant to play in this murder-mystery riddle that had become her life.

"So, who's in the cassette?" A familiar voice snapped her back to the present. She took a deep breath, startled. It was Cameron Goodkin, the young, great-looking, brilliant neuroscientist who initiated the stitches and monitored her placement in the dead person's memory map, whose voice was often a lifeline for Kirsten to pull herself out of ego-consuming stitches.

And, last but not least, Linus Ahluwalia, socially awkward communications technician, and Cameron's best friend.

Kirsten blinked. How long had she been standing here, just staring at this dead woman?  
 _Fuck my perception of time,_ Kirsten thought, whipping around to hear Maggie's case briefing.

"Now that everyone's here," Maggie began, glancing at her clipboard, "I'd like to introduce you all to Rita Morgan. Thirty-six years old at the time of her death. Married, with an infant son."

"Yikes," Cameron muttered, scratching his head.

"Cause of death - an incision to the femoral artery. She bled out in the bathtub of the family's home where her husband found her that evening. They were about to take their honeymoon."

"Shit," Camille said, crossing her arms.

"Brutal," Linus agreed.

Kirsten couldn't stop looking at the poor woman, lying there cold and expressionless, mostly naked except for a wedding ring and tiny medical instruments, wires that traced back to the stitch tank.

"Kirsten," Maggie said, "I'd like you to get in the tank as quickly as possible. We've only got twenty four hours to get a read on Rita's brain. We've got a serial killer to catch."

"Whoa, hold on," Cameron laughed nervously. "A serial killer?"

Camille cracked a smile. "No fucking way, are we tracking Miami's Most Wanted? The Trinity Killer?" She scoffed, her excitement apparent.

Maggie smirked. "Come on, we'll continue the briefing in the conference room."

* * *

Debra Morgan stared at the bulletin board display, hoping to deduce a lead of some kind in the case, sipping her coffee from the tiny styrofoam cup.

"Fucking bastard," she said under her breath.

"Who, me?" Quinn inserted himself smoothly, derailing Debra's train of thought. He flashed a charming smile.

Deb rolled her eyes and grinned at her partner, but she quickly snapped back to the serial killer she so desperately wanted to catch. "How are we gonna find this guy?" She said, exasperation in her voice.

" _We're_ not gonna find him, the FBI will," Quinn said, shaking his head. "Deb, let it go-"

"Like fuck I'll let it go, Quinn," Deb spat out, "Rita was my fucking sister-in-law." She clenched her fist. "I want to find her killer and make him pay for what he's done."

"Which is exactly why you should let it go," Quinn locked eyes with her. "You're too emotionally invested to get involved."

Debra chewed on the thought, crossing her arms. "Yeah, you're right. Fuck," she sighed. "I'm going to call Dexter, excuse me."

"Yeah, sure, no problem," Quinn laughed, placing his hands in his pockets as he watched Deb saunter out into the hallway, dialing on her cell phone.

Dexter Morgan, Blood Spatter Analyst and Serial Killer, curled on his side in bed, deep in sleep, became slowly aware of the sound of his cell phone ringing.  
 _Riiing! Riiing!  
_ Dexter's eyes opened.  
 _Riiing!_ He grabbed his phone from the bedside table. _Debra_ _Morgan_ was displayed on the caller ID, which elicited a groan and accompanying eyeroll from Dexter. He swiped to answer and raised the phone to his ear.

"Dexter Morgan."

"Dexter, how are you doing?" She sounded worried.

"Hey, Deb. I'm fine." He rubbed his face, swinging his legs out from under the blanket.

"You heard they turned Trinity Killer's case over to the FBI? It's a national security issue, apparently. The rest of us are just fucking sitting at Miami Metro dicking around and they're in here fingering through all our files."

"What?" Dexter stood up, stepping into his pants and belting them. He searched for a shirt. "What does the FBI want with the Trinity Killer case? We were closing in on him," Dexter smirked. _But no one's ever going to find him._

"Exactly," Deb said, defeated. "They want to swoop in and take all the glory. FBI: Fucking Bunch of Idiots. Are you coming in today?"

Dexter looked out the window. _The Trinity Killer is dead because I killed him. So why do I feel empty, still?  
_ "Yeah, I'll see you in twenty minutes."

"Dexter, I'm here if you need to talk-"

He hung up.

* * *

"Stations everyone!" Maggie barked across the lab as the Stitchers team assembled at their respective workstations. The corpse of Rita Morgan was prepared in the corpse cassette and Kirsten Clark was getting zipped into her catsuit. The two attendants helped her up into the tank.

"Okay, stretch," Cameron smiled up at Kirsten, using his affectionate name for her. "The fish tank is a toasty 98 degrees."

His voice was reassuring as Kirsten slipped into the warm water, reclining into the tank's ergonomic design, and felt the water shifting around her.

"Let's dim the lights," Cameron directed, and Kirsten closed her eyes.

"Remember," Maggie said, "Any leads as to where the Trinity Killer might be headed."

"Got it," Kirsten replied with her eyes still shut, her voice flat and emotionless.

"Okay," Cameron said, "I need a go, no-go for stitch neurosync. Life sci'?"

"We are a go," came the quick reply.

"Sub-Bio'?" "Go."

"Engineering?" "Go."

"Medical?" "Go."

"Communications?" "Go."

"Kirsten, comm' check?" Kirsten shivered in anticipation. "Check," she said.

"Initiate stitch neurosync on my mark. Three, two, one, mark!" Cameron's face lit up with excitement as he pressed the levers that synchronized the stitch.

Kirsten was jolted into the dead consciousness of Rita Morgan. Everything was blurry and disorienting at first, and spiralling in and out of focus. Kirsten strained to tune in to the feelings that were pouring over her, to decypher the overload of sensory information.

"Where are ya'?" Cameron's voice gave her something to focus on and she managed to stabilize the memory.  
She looked around her; a kitchen, a living room, a hallway leading to bedrooms. "I'm in Rita's home."  
The bright inside of the Morgan family home was cluttered with children's toys and filled with people at a dinner party gathering. Friendly faces shared laughter, stories. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.  
"She was… hosting a dinner party," Kirsten spoke into the communication headset, but her voice seemed somehow distant, disembodied. "Thanksgiving," she concluded, after observing Rita and presumably her husband preparing the turkey in the kitchen. Kirsten took note of the faces - and badges - she saw in attendance. "The Morgans must know a lot of cops," Kirsten observed.

"Yes," Maggie replied over the communications feed, "Rita's husband works at Miami Metro Homicide, so I'm sure many of his closest friends are detectives."

The memory skipped forward a bit, and Rita and her husband were carrying pans of food… outside? Kirsten was pulled by the memory, by Rita, her flashing smile and cute apron, her stress, her flirting.  
"Thanks again for letting me use your oven, Elliot," Rita said over her shoulder as she pushed open the door to the neighbor's house.  
"Oh, anytime," Elliot replied. His smile was over-friendly.  
 _So it's not her husband, it's the neighbor,_ Kirsten observed, noting Rita's wedding band and Elliot's lackthereof.

"Tell me what you're seeing," Cameron's persistence made Kirsten smile.

"Um, she had to use the neighbor's ovens so they went to his place," Kirsten said through the confusion. The memory was still hazy.

Rita was shutting the door to the oven and spun around to grin at Elliot and he reached for her waist, pulling her into his embrace to plant a kiss on her lips. She didn't struggle or resist; Rita gave in to the guilty pleasure.

"Looks like an affair," Kirsten said, her usual expressionless tone. Cameron and Camille exchanged looks inside the Stitch lab.

Rita pulled away after a minute. "Elliot, I can't,"  
"I'm sorry," Elliot said, dropping his head, "I didn't mean to. I just feel this connection with you, Rita, I know you feel it too-"

The stitch changed, suddenly.  
"I'm in a doctor's office now," Kirsten said to the stitch team. The door opened and Dexter walked in, saw Rita there with their son in the baby carrier, and came to kiss her on the cheek.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Dexter said, stress apparent in his voice. "It's just one of those days." Rita gave him a disappointed look and a weak smile.

"I think it's couples counseling - Rita's husband just walked in," Kirsten said to the team.

"Well, it's okay," Rita began, "You're here now-" but just then, Dexter's cell phone rang.  
He apologized and answered it quickly: "Morgan." Rita looked crushed. She averted her eyes as he finished the call.  
"I'm kind of in the middle of something, can it wait?"  
A pause, and then, "Okay, yeah, no, I'll be there," Dexter said, hanging up. "That was work," he pointed a thumb towards the door. "I better go."

"Let me guess," Rita said, obviously miffed, "Crime scene?" She sighed. "Dexter, we have an appointment."  
"I know, but it's an emergency." Dexter wasn't budging.  
"So is this." Rita said curtly.  
"Why?" Dexter sighed. "We're doing better. I'm… being all open, and-"  
"I kissed Elliot." Rita blurted out.  
"You what?"  
"Well, actually, he kissed me, mostly." Her eyes were rimmed with tears. "Look. I was waiting to tell you. In therapy. So let's just go to our session so we-"  
"No, I told you, I can't." Dexter seemed weirdly unaffected by the news.  
"Dexter, please." Rita begged him.  
"I… got to get to work." He turned around and left the office in a hurry.

Kirsten shook her head as the stitch pulled her in another direction and she tried to describe what had just happened. "Dexter showed up for counselling but got called away to a crime scene, so Rita confessed to kissing Elliot but they didn't have time to talk about it, and now… Everything's changing again…" Kirsten's train of thought trailed off as she was launched into another memory of Rita's.

"You okay, stretch?" Cameron's voice called out to her.

"Yeah, no, I'm fine," Kirsten said.

Now she was in Rita's bedroom, where Rita lay reading a book awaiting Dexter's return. The door to the bedroom squeaked open, and in walked Dexter, trying to be silent until he realized Rita was awake.

"Hey," he said quietly, "It's late. You can't sleep?"  
"I stayed up," she said pointedly. "So we could finish our talk."  
Dexter sighed. "Can it wait? I have a huge day tomorrow."  
"No, it can't." Rita put a bookmark in the pages of her book and leaned towards Dexter as he unbuttoned his shirt, preparing for bed.  
"What, are the two of you-" Dexter started.  
"No, no," Rita spat out. "It was just a huge mistake. And I am so, so sorry."  
Dexter seemed nonplussed. "Well, okay then." He stripped his pants off and gets in bed, pulling the blanket up around his waist. "Apology accepted."  
"Shouldn't we talk about this?" Rita wasn't convinced.  
Dexter, head now laying in his pillow, said, "I thought we just did."  
"You didn't say anything," Rita prodded him.  
"I'm putting it behind me," Dexter said, groaning. "Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"  
"I mean, I'm glad," Rita said, deflated, "but if I were you, I would be hurt, angry, disgusted."  
Dexter rolled over to face her, locking eyes. "Is that how you want me to feel?"  
Rita looked off, breaking his gaze. "No," she whispered.  
"Then, good, see?" Dexter pecked her lips with a kiss. "Everything is okay."

Kirsten scoffs. "Her husband is unaffected by the affair. She wants him to talk to her about it but he's distant."

"Good work, stretch, I'm going to move you closer to the night of her death," came Cameron's reply.

Kirsten recognized the same kitchen interior. "I'm still inside the Morgan's home."

Rita was watching something through the window. Kirsten stepped up to peek through the blinds and could just make out Dexter walking over to the neighbor's porch. Elliot was outside sitting on the steps and quickly got to his feet. Rita and the unseen Kirsten gasped in unison as Dexter swung a punch and clocked Elliot. "Oh, Dexter," Rita whispered.

The men exchanged words and Dexter headed back towards his home. Moments later, the front door swung open, and Rita prepared an ice pack for the fist Dexter was nursing as he walked in.

"Your hand," Rita said, offering him the ice pack.  
"You… saw?" Dexter's expression didn't change.  
"I saw." Rita smiled, but Dexter sighed.  
"You're not mad?" He said carefully.  
"No, not mad," Rita said.  
"What are you?"  
"Glad, that you cared that much."

Rita leaned down and kissed his knuckles and left her hand to rest on his, holding the ice pack in place. Dexter leaned down and kissed _her_ knuckles, too, and they shared a laugh.

"I can't believe you hit him though!" Rita grinned.  
"I know," Dexter smiled back.  
"I didn't see that coming."  
"I didn't either," Dexter pulled her in for a kiss on the lips.

"I guess Dexter was upset about Rita's affair after all. He punched Elliot two nights before Rita died," Kirsten said to the stitch team, feeling that fuzzy disembodied feeling again as the stitch flung her into the more recent memories.

The scene was inside their bedroom again, and Rita entered through the door and saw Dexter standing at the window, peering through the blinds. He turned to face her.

"We should go the Keys tomorrow," Dexter said flatly. "For our honeymoon."  
"No I'm not sure that's-" Rita stammered.  
"You can fly down in the morning. I'll follow you after work. Have a spa day. Indulge. Please?"  
"Dexter," Rita tried to derail him again, but he was determined.  
"I know you're upset, you have every right to be. Having to pick up another husband from jail... " Dexter dropped his head.

Kirsten smirked. "She had to pick her husband up from jail the next night."

"Y-you think I'm upset because you're like Paul?" Rita said, shaking her head.  
"I'm worse." Dexter said as he met her eyes. "I know."  
"Dexter, whenever they picked up Paul it was a relief. Life got easier. Without you…" Rita smiled. "You're the most important person in our lives. What's upsetting me is the idea of losing you. You have your demons. I accept that. Because I know that you don't have to be a slave to them."

Dexter brow furrowed. "I wish that were true," he said.

"It is," Rita caressed his face with both hands. "I know you. Better than you know yourself. You can conquer whatever darkness there is in you, I know you can."  
Dexter kissed her, and with his eyes closed, said, "I want to be that man."  
"You already are." Rita kissed him back.  
"Please," Dexter said. "Please fly to the Keys tomorrow morning. Truly, there's nowhere I'd rather be." He kissed her again.

"God, Cameron, get me out of here. This is getting sappy and it isn't what we're looking for," Kirsten urged, feeling like a third wheel.

"We have to be getting close," Cameron said back. "We're inside the day she was murdered now. I'll push you ahead a few hours."

The memory now centered around Rita and Harrison, in Rita's car. Rita was on her phone leaving a message to Dexter.  
"Hey sweetie, I'm a dope," Rita began, laughing slightly. "I was in such a rush to get Harrison organized I forgot my I.D. for the plane, so I'm zooming home for it. Means we'll be on a later puddle jumper, but we'll still be there waiting for you. Oh, and I know you're not into this stuff but… the moon tonight is gonna be amazing. So take a moment. You deserve it. We love you. Bye."

She hung up her phone, careened into the driveway and put the car in park. She pulled Harrison up out of the car seat and carried him up to the door, flipped through the keys on her keyring until she found the door key and let herself into her home.  
Rita set down her purse and began to look for the I.D. in her bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room. Kirsten, invisible, watched Rita as she grew more aggravated. She heard water running in the bathroom, and slowly went to investigate, Harrison on her hip.

The bathroom cabinet mirror hung open, and the water was running from the bathtub faucet. Rita reached to close the mirror, but her heart leapt out of her chest-

In the reflection, behind her, she saw a man. A naked, older man.

"Whoa," came Kirsten's involuntary response. She quickly fumbled to recap what she was seeing. "Rita forgot her I.D. and drove home, found an old naked guy in her bathroom."

Rita got out one scream before the man put her in a chokehold, cupping her mouth. She screamed against his hand, and Harrison began to cry, clinging tightly to his mother.

"Put down the kid," the man's husky voice was void of all emotion. Rita obliged very slowly.

Harrison screamed, sitting on the cold tile, all alone.

"Take off your clothes," the man instructed.

Rita began to sob. "Please," she cried. "No, please."

He tightened his chokehold, cutting off her cries.

"Oh, god," Kirsten said, watching the encounter. "He's… The man is Trinity. He's making her take off her clothes."

"Disgusting," Camille's voice piped up over the communication line.

"Seriously," Kirsten agreed.

The man, using the chokehold grip to drag a now-naked Rita over to the tub where the water was already overflowing and stepped in, urging Rita to get in too.

"Get in the bath," the old man said, and Rita sobbed uncontrollably as she was forcibly lowered into the tub with the man right behind her, his arms and legs locking around her.

Harrison's wailing didn't cease.

"He made her get in the bathtub with him," Kirsten said, disgust in her voice.

"That's where they found her, in the bathtub," Maggie replied.

"Oh, please," Rita cried harder than ever. "Please, don't-"

The man tightened his grip to silence her, and Rita gagged, gasping for air.

He reached over, picking up a razor blade he had prepared beside the bathtub. Rita's eyes grew wide with panic, fear. She squirmed, but the man's grip was locktight, and he reached down with the blade and sliced her thigh. She screamed into his arm, pain searing through her body. Blood filled the bathtub in seconds.

"He killed her with a razor blade, slicing her thigh," Kirsten said.

The man then took a hand mirror and held it out in front of Rita and she bled out, shining the reflection so he could watch her face as she died. Rita groaned and whimpered.  
Her breathing started to fade. The tub was stained blood red.

'I'm bouncing," Kirsten shouted, feeling the memory collapsing as Rita's consciousness faded.

Kirsten typed the bounce password and sat up out of the tank, eyes opening.

Cameron came bounding up beside the tank, the others right behind him. They all looked up at Kirsten expectantly, eyes wide. Kirsten took a couple deep ragged breaths before speaking.

"Let's catch this fucker."

* * *

"Detective Quincy Fisher, I'm here with the NSA," Fisher flashed his detective badge at the Miami Metro Homicide front desk. "I need to speak with Dexter Morgan, is he available?" The receptionist nodded, and pointed Detective Fisher in the direction of Dexter's lab.

The door to Dexter's forensics office swung open, and the tall dark haired man smiled.  
"Hello, Dexter Morgan?" Fisher began, extending a hand for the usual handshake.  
Dexter eyed him suspiciously, but stood up, taking his hand. "Yes, who are you?"  
"I'm Detective Quincy Fisher. We've recently acquired the Trinity Killer case jurisdiction and I'd like to ask you some questions, if you have time."

Dexter sat back down at his desk and motioned for Fisher to do the same. "Sure," Dexter said, leaning forward, seemingly sincere. "How can I help you?"

Fisher crossed his legs, clearing his throat. "Your wife, Rita… Her body was ordained by the FBI as part of their official investigation. And trust me, no harm or disrespect will come to your late wife and she's on her way to the mortuary right now to be prepared for her funeral, but Rita was in a government facility where the memories of the recently dead are, um, how do I put this," Fisher stumbled briefly, "reviewed by a team of experts."

Dexter blinked. "Reviewed?"

Fisher fidgeted uncomfortably. "There is a neuroscientist who can fuse a living person's brain with the stored memories of a deceased brain and it allows us to experience the events leading up to their death. We use it to discover the truth in inexplicable homicide cases, such as Rita's. It's called 'stitching.' This is classified information, what I'm telling you right now." Fisher tugged at his collar, loosening his tie slightly. "No kidding, I could lose my job over this. But I can tell you know how to keep a secret."

Dexter leaned back in his chair, mulling it over. "So Rita was somewhere in a lab hooked up to a living person that can... see? What Rita saw? And this is going to help you catch Trinity."

He looked up at Fisher who smiled. "You've got the gist."

"So what do you need from me?" Dexter's tone was unreadable.

Fisher hesitated. "Well, thanks to the efforts at the stitch lab, we managed to clear your name from the FBI's list of suspects. The description of the attack we gleaned from Rita's memories verifies that you were not there at the time of the murder. However, we're still curious why the Trinity Killer would target Rita. Do you know of any interactions she might have had with an older white male?"

"No, none that I can think of," Dexter replied. _What all did they see in Rita's memories?_

Just then, the door to Dexter's lab opened again and his adoptive sailor-mouthed sister entered.

"Oh, fuck, sorry Dex, I didn't realize you were meeting with someone-" Deb started to see herself out, but Dexter took the opportunity to weasel out of the detective's questioning.

"Detective Fisher, this is my sister, Detective Debra Morgan," Dexter stood up to make the formal introduction. "And Deb, this is Detective Quincy Fisher, one of the detectives now on the Trinity Killer case."

Fisher also stood, extending a hand for Debra. She smiled and shook his hand, making eye contact as she said, "Nice to meet you, Detective Fisher. Anything I can help you with? Dexter and I both worked on the Trinity Killer case up 'til now, so we might be able to point you in the right direction." Deb wasn't masking the bitter tone in her voice. She hated that the FBI had pulled the rug out from under Miami Metro and took over the whole operation.

Smiling, Fisher seemed unphased by her hostility. "I just finished telling Dexter here some highly classified information. Can I trust you to keep this among department officials only?" He addressed Deb with a serious expression.

She smirked, intrigued, and stifled a laugh. "Uh, yes," she said, "go on."

"The FBI took Rita's body to a lab where one of our experts was stitched to her brain and she observed your sister-in-law's memories-"

"The stitcher's a 'she'?" Dexter interrupted. _I've got to find this 'stitch' lab,_ he thought _._

Fisher glossed over the slip. "Um, the point is, our team has discovered that your brother did not kill his wife, Rita-"

Deb flared up. "Well no shit, Sherlock. Dexter loved Rita. Are you done pouring salt into fresh wounds?"

Fisher threw his hands up defensively. "I wasn't finished! We just need to get all the details of the story, like... why Dexter suddenly wanted to take his honeymoon with Rita," he said, turning to look at Dexter.  
"Did you feel like she was in danger?" Fisher's voice grew darker with each question. "Threatened somehow? That she'd be safe, in the Keys, with Harrison? Did you know the Trinity Killer was going to target your home? Break in and kill your wife?"

Dexter didn't break. His expression remained the same. Debra's face was twisted in anger, and she jumped to Dexter's defense, her voice escalating. "Now you listen here, you scummy fuck-for-brains dickbag detective, my brother-"

"Deb, please," Dexter raised a hand to interject. "Detective Fisher, I think we should meet another time to go over the details."

Fisher laughed cynically. "Okay, alright. We'll do it your way."

He moved towards the door, smoothing out the lines of his suit jacket. "I'll be in touch. Deb, pleasure meetin' you," he winked at the tall brunette detective who rolled her eyes in return. The detective departed, and Dexter and Deb exchanged glances of disbelief.

"What an... _asshole_." Deb said after a minute. They both watched him through the blinds as he casually sauntered out of the office.

That evening after work, Dexter drove to Debra's apartment, one that had once belonged to him. He had been staying with her since Rita's death. It was too painful to live in the house where he had found Rita. It was truly still a crime scene, thick with Rita's blood, a delightful mess…

Deb's apartment was messy, but it made Dexter smile. _Some things never change._

He locked the door behind him, dropping his things on the floor near the desk and taking a seat. Dexter pulled out his laptop and opened it on the desk, quickly pulling up a search for " _Stitching"_ that amounted to nothing. He rested his head in his hand, tapping irritably with the other hand.

Debra walked out of her bedroom, leaving the door cracked slightly and tiptoeing down the hall. She spotted Dexter and waved excitedly, and then motioned towards the door,

"Just got the little man down for a nap," she whispered.

Dexter's mind lingered on Harrison. "I'm so glad he's safe," Dexter replied.

"Yeah, for real. Fucking miracle," Deb smiled half-heartedly. "So what are you gonna do about that dick FBI detective and his fucking team or whatever?"

"I'm gonna meet him again," Dexter said nonchalantly. "I assume he'll call me."

The way he blew it off made Debra uneasy. "Dexter, this is serious," she said as she sat down on the edge of the desk. "If he calls you, you call me, got it?" She gave him a tense stare.

"Listen, Deb, I don't need your help-"

"Dammit, Dexter! You do!"

In the distance, Harrison cried softly, awoken by the shouting. Deb rolled her eyes.

"Great, fucking great," she mumbled, turning on her heel to go ease him back to sleep.

Dexter sighed, and returned to the search bar, this time typing " _Detective Quincy Fisher_ " which yielded some promising links. Dexter learned that Detective Fisher closed many high profile homicide cases over the past year. _Probably with the help of the stitcher program,_ Dexter thought. _How does stitching work? This new element in the forensic equation, the idea that a person's memories can survive beyond death, and worse, determine someone's guilt._ Dexter dug deeper, searching the record database for Quincy Fisher to obtain his home address.

 _At least I never leave brains behind that could be 'stitched.'_

He closed his laptop.

* * *

Kirsten entered the house that night, noticing the door was unlocked, and called out to her roommate. "Camille?"

"It's so nice to finally meet you, Kirsten," said an unfamiliar man's voice. Kirsten's mind immediately went to Arthur Mitchell, Trinity Killer, Rita's murderer, adult male who waits like a predator, lurking inside the house until someone comes home. But when the intruder stepped into the light, she scowled, her fear replaced with anger.

Instead, Lez Turner stepped into the light, his business suit and silver coiffe still in tact. He smiled darkly, waiting for Kirsten to say something.

"How'd you get in here?" She said, tilting her head.

"My old friend Ed Clark gave me a key to his house-" Turner began smugly.

"And your right to use it ended when Ed died and it became my house." Kirsten said matter-of-factly, her blonde ponytail swaying with sass.

A moment of awkward tension passed before he apologized. "Sorry," he said, smiling. "Can we talk?"

Kirsten seemed uninterested. "Look, Mr. Turner, it's been a long day, can we do this another time? I can't imagine what is so important-"

Turner interrupted. "Alright, then, I'll get straight to the point. The murder cases we handle are test runs for something bigger, the real purpose of the program."

"Test runs for what?" Kirsten blinked.

"I don't know."

 _Bullshit._ Kirsten crossed her arms. "I don't believe that the director of a program like this doesn't know its true purpose. Why are you telling me this?"

Turner began to pace around their living room. "No one single person in the agency knows everything. That's how they keep the program safe. That's how they keep _us_ all safe. Kirsten at some point you have to believe that the people around you actually have your best interest in mind."

"So we just keep doing what we're doing, ask no questions, until someone decides to let us in on the big secret?" Arms still crossed, Kirsten could see where this conversation was heading - the classic keep-your-nose-out-of-it lecture.

"Well, it's worked for me," Turner said smartly.

"Well I'm not you," Kirsten replied with a venom tongue.

"No, you're not." He turned to leave. "Thanks for listening."

"Wait!" Kirsten caught the door as he started to close it behind him. "Wait, I have to ask... Did Ed Clark commit suicide?"

Turner seemed to consider his answer before saying flatly, "No."

Kirsten felt relieved, but now the new mystery remained: "How did he die?"

"Protecting you." And with that, Turner shut the door closed behind him, leaving Kirsten to mull over the newly gleaned piece of the Stitcher's program puzzle that always seemed to directly interfere with her family.

Protecting _me from what?_

* * *

The next morning, Debra woke up early and headed out.

She rang Dexter to let him know where he could find her, since she couldn't find him.

" _You've reached the voicemail box of_ 'Dexter Morgan.' _At the tone, please leave your message."_

"Hey Dex, it's Deb, Quinn called, and the FBI has released the crime scene at your house, so there are some things I want to do there and you don't have to worry about a thing. Call me if you need me, or if you just need a break from Harrison."

Debra pulled up to 3319 Meadow Lane, parking her car behind Quinn's patrol car. He was sitting there in the grass out front, waiting for her to arrive. He stood up, brushed himself off, and put his hands in his pockets, grinning.

"Aye, Deb," he greeted her warmly.

She smiled weakly in response, and together they went inside the former Morgan residence.

"I really didn't expect you to come," Deb said to Quinn once they got inside.

"We're partners," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm here. What are we looking for?"

"Nothing," Debra insisted. "Trinity wouldn't leave anything behind."

"What are we doing then?" Quinn followed her as she lead him into the bathroom crime scene.

Blood still stained the tiles on the floor, and filled the bathtub where they found Rita, and there were smears in the blood where Dexter found Harrison, sitting in a pool of Rita's blood.

Just like Harry found Dexter, soaked in his mother's blood. Deb shivered.

"I wanted to clean the place up." She said firmly. "Make sure Dexter doesn't see it like this."

"The FBI left it this way," Quinn protested. "They have people who will do that."

Deb handed him a pair of latex gloves, unquestioning.

He sighed, chuckled slightly and slipped them on.

* * *

"I didn't get anything out of Dexter," Detective Fisher announced, strolling into the lab. All heads turned to him, and he elaborated. "His sister interrupted our discussion. I'll drop back in on him tomorrow afternoon."

"You think he's hiding something?" Kirsten stated bluntly.

"Well, rushing her off to a honeymoon suite is suspicious," Camille mused. "If she would have made her plane, she might still be alive."

"So you think he knew she was going to get murdered, somehow?" Cameron seemed doubtful. "Are you sure it wasn't just a coincidence?"

"Unlikely," Kirsten said, her tone flat. "Maybe I can get more out of him if I question him myself." She stood up, slung her purse on her shoulder and headed for the elevator.

"Kirsten, stop, get back here!" Maggie trotted after her, catching her by the elbow. Kirsten spun around.

"Maggie's right," Fisher chipped in. "You'd be putting yourself in harm's way unnecessarily. Besides, you don't have any reason to insert yourself into Dexter Morgan's life. What if he's innocent?"

"That's what I'm going to find out." and with that, Kirsten jerked her arm loose and stormed off, spinning around to flash everyone a sardonic smile as the elevator doors shut.

Cameron looked at Linus.

Linus shook his head. "Dude, don't do it."

"I'm going after her," Cameron said, sighing.

Linus scoffed. "Of course you are, man."

Camille rolled her eyes. "Let's go, guys. We can't let her go alone."

Kirsten strolled out onto the street, arm raised to hail a taxi. It was only a minute before one swung over in front of her. She climbed in the back seat.

"3319 Meadow Lane," Kirsten said to the taxi driver.

"Got it," he replied, accelerating away from the crowded Chinese restaurant.

* * *

"This much blood, usually you call Dexter." Quinn laughed, ribbing Deb as they finished the last of the clean-up undertaking.

Deb smiled weakly. Quinn got the hint. "How you holdin' up?" He said, his tone gentle.

Deb sniffed. "Okay, I guess. I mean, you know my brother. It's a little hard to tell."

"No," Quinn said, putting an arm around her. "I mean you. How are _you_ holding up?"

"Oh," Deb shrugged. "Fine." She wiped away a tear. "I'm not used to having to be the strong one, you know? It's always been Dexter. And now…"

"He's the strong one?" Quinn asked. "To me, it's always seemed the other way around."

"I swear to God, I can't even…" Deb started crying. "I can't even tell what he's thinking."

"Sorry," Quinn whispered, reaching to wrap her up in his arms. "I didn't mean to make things worse."

"It's okay," Deb whispered, collapsing into him.

She suddenly kissed him,

and _hard._

Quinn pulled away, confused but not complaining. "What are you doing?"

"I don't know," Deb said, and she kissed him again. This time he kissed back, and the two of them pressed up against the Morgans' kitchen counter, Deb quickly unbuckling Quinn's belt and slinging it onto the counter with a _clang_ , hungrily unbuttoning his shirt and pushing it off his shoulders, then stripping off her own. They moved to the kitchen floor, sliding out of jeans and into each others' arms in the still-bloody house where her sister-in-law was brutally murdered. Deb straddled him as he lay on the floor, bare skin cool against the kitchen tile, and he reached up and unhooked her bra with one hand; it unlatched and she shrugged it off, exposing herself and grinning coyly.

* * *

Meanwhile, Dexter, with Harrison in tow, sat in his car like a silent prowler, stalking Detective Fisher. He had followed him from his apartment in downtown Miami to this Chinese restaurant, _Jade Fog,_ all the while Harrison slept soundly in the backseat.

 _Fisher's been inside a long time,_ Dexter made a mental note. _Is this some sort of cover for the stitch lab? A Chinese restaurant?_

 _That's really the perfect cover,_ Dexter thought. _Lots of people coming and going, lax security, under the radar._

He checked the time on his phone. _Shit,_ he thought, _I need to get ready for Rita's funeral._ Just as he was about to start his car, a tall, thin girl with a sleek blonde ponytail came strutting out of the restaurant, arm raised in an effort to hail a taxi. The woman reminded him of Rita, briefly, but something else about her was curious. Dexter had been waiting out front of the restaurant for nearly an hour and never saw her go inside, yet here she was, coming out.

 _Is that the girl? The 'stitcher'?_

Harrison started to fuss as he woke up, his crying getting louder. Dexter turned to comfort him, and when he turned back around to look at the girl, she was gone, her taxi speeding off into the streets.

* * *

Deb and Quinn lay panting in the kitchen floor. Debra ran her hand through her hair. She pulled herself up suddenly, grabbing her clothes. She stepped into her pants, and slid her arms through the holes of her shirt.

"Do you mind?" She spat out to Quinn who lay contently on the floor, watching her.

"What?" He said, smiling.

"Look somewhere else," she continued to get dressed, turning her back to him.

Just then, someone knocked on the door, a sharp _thwack thwack thwack_. Quinn chuckled, clutching his clothes and rushing to put them on as Deb walked through the living room and peeked through the blinds.

"It's some blonde," Debra said to Quinn in a hushed voice. She opened the door a crack.

"Hi, can I help you?" Deb said to Kirsten, who was trying to look around her into the house.

"I'm looking for Dexter Morgan," Kirsten stated flatly, "Is he here?"

"Who the fuck are you?" Deb asked callously, running her hands through her messy post-sex hair. "And how do you know Dexter?"  
"I'm an old friend of Rita's," Kirsten insisted, smiling sweetly. "I wanted to offer him my condolences. Do you have any idea what happened to her?"

Deb scoffed in disbelief. "Yeah, she was murdered. Now's not a good time. Her funeral is this afternoon, I'm sure you can find Dexter there."

"It's really urgent-" Kirsten began.

"Please," Deb laughed in her face. "I'm his sister, and he's not home, and I can guarantee he doesn't want to talk to you, cause he barely fucking talks to me. Now get out of here."

Kirsten put her hand up to stop the door as Deb tried to close it. "Okay, fine, the truth is I'm working on the Trinity Killer case, I believe you spoke to my associate, Detective Fisher."

"Yeah, I remember that asshole." Deb wasn't laughing anymore. "You and he can both go fuck yourselves."

Quinn, now fully dressed albeit a bit ruffled, approached the door. "Whoa, whoa, Deb, what's going on? Who are you?" Quinn looked at Kirsten.

"Kirsten Clark, I'm working on the Trinity Killer case." She put out her hand, and Quinn melted right into it.

"Kirsten Clark, eh? I'm Detective Joey Quinn, it's nice to meet you," he said, holding the handshake a second too long.

Deb shot them both a dirty look and grabbed her keys, stormed past Kirsten, slamming the driver door shut and revving her car's engine to life; she sped off down the street before Kirsten or Quinn could get a word out.

"Dont mind Deb," Quinn said with a laugh, putting his hands in his pockets. "She's worked up over this whole situation. How can I help you, Kirsten?"

"I came here looking for Dexter. I have some things I need to ask him about his wife, Rita. I believe he knows something about the Trinity Killer he isn't telling us, and he may have known his wife was in danger before she died."

Quinn raised an eyebrow. "Whoa, that's a hefty accusation," he said.

"I'm not making accusations, I just need to speak with him," Kirsten said peering around Quinn inside the house. Quinn stepped out onto the porch, shutting the door to 3319 Meadow Lane behind him.

"Look, Kirsten, I'm on your side. Something's off about Dexter. I knew it when I reviewed the 911 call."

Kirsten lit up. "The 911 call that Dexter made?"

"Exactly," Quinn said, "I've got the audio saved to my laptop. Something just ain't right about it… He seems detached, unaffected. Cold, like he's giving a lab report, not like he just found his wife dead. I have my laptop in the car. If you wanna take this somewhere else, we can go listen to it."

"Yes, please," Kirsten followed him back to his car expectantly.

"Oh, did you not drive here?" Quinn asked her, a hint of laughter in his voice.

"No, I took a taxi," she said, matter-of-factly.

Quinn shook his head, laughing. "Alright, get in."

At that moment, the neighbor, Elliot, stepped out of his front door and onto the porch. Quinn and Kirsten both noticed.

"Excuse me a second, I need to question this guy-" Quinn started to say, but Kirsten was already unbuckled and out the passenger door, sauntering up Elliot's lawn.

"Hello, Elliot?" She said, waltzing right up to him. He looked between her and Quinn cautiously.

"Can I help you two?"

"Detective Joey Quinn with Miami Metro Homicide," Quinn said, flashing his badge.

"Um," Elliot started to say as he picked up toys from the yard, "I already talked to the FBI. I told them I didn't see anything. What did you need?"

"How well did you know Rita?" Quinn said firmly.

"Well, you know," Elliot seemed to hesitate. "We're neighbors"

"Yeah," Quinn nodded. "I just… couldn't help but notice how torn up you were about her the other night."

"She was a friend, you know, it was upsetting." Elliot stammered.

"A friend?" Quinn said skeptically. "I was told she might have been more."

Kirsten's eyes studied Quinn's face momentarily before flicking back to Elliot. _How does Quinn know about Rita's affair? Did Dexter tell him?_ Kirsten thought.

Elliot looked at Quinn, and then Kirsten, and back at Quinn, before dropping his gaze to his feet in shame. "Fucking Christ," he managed. "Look, I don't know what you heard, but all me and Rita ever did was kiss, once. And it was nothing. I mean her husband was never around! Anyway, Dexter found out about the indiscretion and came over and punched me out."

"Hmm," Quinn replied. Kirsten smirked. _So Quinn didn't know the whole story._

"Thanks, Elliot," He smiled dismissively and Elliot went back to cleaning up his yard.

Kirsten and Quinn got back in his patrol car and he fired up the engine. Kirsten opened her mouth to ask about the 911 call audio, but Quinn beat her to the chase.

"So, what did you want with that guy?" Quinn smiled at her. "You didn't ask any questions, but you rushed up there as soon as you saw him. What was that about?"

"I, um," Kirsten tucked a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, "I recognized him."

"You… recognized Elliot?" Quinn pulled the car out into the road. He glanced at Kirsten's unreadable expression.

"From the FBI files," she lied smoothly. Quinn seemed to buy it, and Kirsten relaxed.

"So where are we headed?" She asked.

"Somewhere private," Quinn said sternly. "We can go back to my place."

"Actually," Kirsten interjected, "I know this great Chinese place…"

* * *

"Kirsten, where are you?" Camille shouted into her cell phone once the voicemail tone sounded. "We're getting worried. Call me back."

Maggie stood on the platform with her arms crossed, discussing something in quiet whispers with Detective Fisher.

Cameron paced back and forth around the tank, muttering occasionally to himself, checking his phone frequently. Linus sat in his desk chair, playing a game on his computer.

 _Ding!_ The elevator opened, and Kirsten walked in with Joey Quinn.

"Kirsten!" Camille shouted, "Where the hell have you been? We followed you to the Morgan's address but you weren't there."

Quinn's eyes widened. "What the fuck is all this?" He gestured around the room.

Cameron laughed nervously. "Welcome to the Stitch Lab."

Quinn walked around the tank as Maggie shot daggers at Kirsten.

"Um, Kirsten, you know you're not supposed to just tell anybody and everybody about what we do here, right?" Camille leaned in to sort-of whisper to Kirsten.

"I haven't told him anything about what we do here, but he's going to help us figure out what Dexter's not telling us," Kirsten said, lacking emotion in her voice.

"What's the tank for?" Quinn said as he rapped his knuckles against its glass wall.

"We insert Kirsten's consciousness into dead people's' brains," Camille said casually.

"Huh?" Quinn looked up at her. Maggie and Fisher seemed uncomfortable, but watched from the platform.

"We work for a secret government agency that hacks into the brains of corpses and reads their memories," Kirsten chimed in.

"No kidding," Quinn laughed. "Fucking bad ass. I'm in. What can I do to help?"

"I want you to figure out if Dexter came in contact with the Trinity Killer somehow," Kirsten said, taking the initiative. "He had to know that his wife was in danger. I sensed an urgency in his voice - he really loved her. He wanted her safe," Kirsten said, turning to face them all.

"I'll see what I can do," Quinn replied, scratching his head. "It's really out of my hands, though. If Laguerta finds out I've been snooping around on Dexter's trail she'll suspend my ass. The FBI took this case from our department; it looks bad on us if I continue pursuing it," Quinn said, leaning up against the stitch tank, arms crossed.

"If I may interrupt," Fisher said, sighing, "Kirsten, I just got off the phone with Dexter Morgan. I was discussing it privately with Maggie, but it seems appropriate to share, now…"

"Well?" Kirsten demanded.

"I'm arranging to meet with him after his wife's funeral."

Quinn blinked. "Uh, hello, I'm Detective Joey Quinn, and you are?"

"Detective Quincy Fisher," Fisher reached his hand out for Quinn to shake it. He did, reluctantly. The two locked eyes for a moment, but the tension subsided when Maggie spoke.

"Detective Quinn, I'm former CIA-agent Maggie Baptiste. A pleasure to meet you." She smiled politely. Quinn nodded in return.

"Well, I've got to get back to the office," Quinn said, taking his cue to leave.  
"I'll be in touch if I hear anything from Dexter," he said privately to Kirsten, touching her arm and smiling sincerely. Kirsten shrugged his hand off and forced a smile back.

After he left, all eyes turned on Kirsten. "You can't bring people into the lab, Kirsten," Maggie scolded. "You put us all in jeopardy when you take these unnecessary risks."

"He's a detective, like Fisher," Kirsten retorted. "I don't see the issue."

Fisher and Maggie exchanged a look of exasperation.

Cameron, Camille, and Linus snickered.

"So, you're going to meet with Dexter tomorrow, Fisher?" Kirsten said, staring at him intently.

"Yes, and I'll let you tag along," he grumbled. Maggie patted his shoulder consolingly.

"I've got something from Quinn," Kirsten began, sitting down at the nearest desk and fishing out a USB storage drive. "It's just more evidence that leads me to believe Dexter Morgan knows more than he's telling us. This is his 911 call from the night he discovered his wife's body."  
She loaded up the audio file of Dexter's 911 call:

" _This is Dexter Morgan, 3319 Meadow Lane."_

" _What is your emergency?"_

" _I just got home and found my wife dead in the bathtub."_

" _Did you say your wife is dead?"_

" _Yes, I did. She had an approximately 1-inch incision midway up her right thigh, dissecting the femoral artery."_

"Jesus," Camille muttered. "The guy sounds like a robot."

"Maybe he's in shock," Cameron suggested. "He did just find his wife dead in the bathtub of their home."

"He doesn't sound surprised to me," Fisher commented, trying to hide his disgust. "He sounds practiced."

"He had no emotion in his voice," Kirsten realized. Practiced emotion.

 _He's like me_.


	2. Chapter 2

Dexter x Stitchers: Chapter 2

Kirsten sat expectantly on the couch in the house she shared with her roommate, coworker, formerly-spy-turned-best-friend Camille, who just happened to be getting out of the shower. The door to the bathroom opened and steam rolled out into the hallway and living room; Camille sauntered out in just a tucked towel, humming, the fresh smell of coconut shampoo wafting in after her. She flipped her phone screen around to show Kirsten a pair of boots. "These boots are to _die_ for, but they're five hundred bucks!"

Kirsten looked up from her phone and feigned a smile. "Oh, Camille, our hot water heater is on the fritz, so take it easy with those long showers."

Camille smirked. "You have no sense of time with your temporal dysplasia," she said laughing, "how do you even know how long I take in there?"

"Today, it was-" Kirsten held up her phone, the stopwatch app visible on the screen, "twenty-three minutes and seven seconds."

Just then, someone knocked at their door. _Thud thud thud._

Camille was still staring at Kirsten with disbelief.  
"Okay, timing me in the shower is mega creepy. Mega," she said as she moved to answer the door. "Like, now I need another shower."

She opened the door to reveal a dashing young man with a great smile who promptly answered, "Hello," in a charming accent, "Is Kirsten home?"  
Camille smiled devilishly. "Why, no she is not," she replied flirtatiously, leaning against the doorframe.

"Liam?" Kirsten leapt up from the couch and appeared behind Camille in the doorway.

"I knew there was no point in trying to surprise you, but I hope you're happy to see me?" Liam said, a smile spreading across his face. Camille stepped aside to let him in.

"Of course I am," Kirsten said. "Um, but I have to go," she said, eyes flickering to Camille.

"Well I don't!" Camille said mischievously, shutting the door.

"Yes," Kirsten said firmly, "We do. It's for work, it's urgent."

"Well, whatever you have to do," Liam said, setting down his backpack on their sofa. "Do you mind if I wait here til you get back?"

"Uh, yeah, make yourself at home." Kirsten smiled weakly and dragged Camille out the door.

* * *

The funeral home was quiet, and only Debra and Dexter were standing together with Rita's casket.

"It was my fault," Dexter whispered under his breath, his shoulders racking with repressed grief.

"Dex," Deb shot him a serious look. "You've got to stop saying things like that. No wonder the FBI is interviewing you."

"I wasn't there to protect her," Dexter said, his tone almost a growl. Deb reached out to console him.

"Dexter," she said. "It's not your fault, okay? Listen, I've got to get changed," Deb said, stroking his arm. He nodded. "I'll be right back. People are going to show up any minute, so I'll leave you alone with her."

Dexter stood there, alone, with Rita.

He ran a finger over her pale, perfect cheek. "Rita…" he whispered.

"I hope you don't mind that I chose that dress," he continued, leaning over to tell her. "You were wearing it when… we first met."

 _I don't deserve to be here,_ Dexter thought. _I was never really honest with you, Rita._ _I'm a serial killer, that's what I am. I know I led you to believe I'm a human being, but I'm not. That was a lie._ He placed his hand over Rita's heart.

Dexter's face didn't show a hint of his emotions. He wasn't sure if he was really feeling anything, except his constant, insatiable dark hunger that just became... unignorable.

He tore himself away from Rita's casket. He pretended to wipe away a tear as Lieutenant Laguerta walked in with Sergeant Batista. _Can they tell I'm faking?_ he thought as he embraced them both briefly.

"Dexter," Batista said, locking eyes with Dex, "I'm so sorry for your loss. Anything you need, just ask." He touched Dexter's arm consolingly. Dexter smiled, a bit awkwardly, and tried to push past them, but Laguerta reached to stop him.

"Hey, Morgan," She said, using the formal tone she reserved for workplace relations, "I hate to do this to you on such a dark day, but Detective Fisher stopped by in regards to the Trinity Killer investigation, he needs to speak with you at your earliest convenience today. Give him a call." In Laguerta's hand was a business card - _Detective Quincy Fisher, Federal Bureau of Investigations._

Dexter took the card, pocketing it. "Um, yeah," he said. "Thanks." He shuffled past them, mentally preparing for the eulogy he was about to deliver.

* * *

"Spill now," Camille demanded of Kirsten as soon as they got in the elevator that plunged deep under _Jade Fog_ into the stitch lab. "Who is Liam?"

"He's my boyfriend," Kirsten said flatly. "Sort of." She seemed to be blowing the whole thing off, but Camille was giddy and now extremely curious.

"You've had a boyfriend this whole time, and this is the first I'm hearing about him?" She said enthusiastically. "So what's he like? Where's he from? What's he do? How'd you meet? C'mon, sista'! Gimme the details." She rested her chin on her folded hands, attention locked on the passive, evasive Kirsten.

"Well, not this whole time," Kirsten began. "But when he's back, it's like he never left, if that makes sense. I don't sense the time that we've spent apart, I only know that we're together now, so we just pick back up where we left off. He was on a fellowship this past year, I'm assuming he just finished it. Now, can you please spare me from the twenty questions game just this once? I'd really like to focus on work," she said, timed perfectly for the opening of the elevator doors. _Ding!_

Cameron, Linus, and the other technicians looked up briefly towards the elevator door as Camille and Kirsten entered the lab. Maggie, seeing their arrival, waltzed out of her office and cleared her throat.

"Good morning, everybody," Maggie began, her tone serious as ever. "We're on crunch time with the remaining hours left on Rita's body, so Kirsten, I want you to suit up and be ready to stitch as soon as possible. Camille, get ahold of Fisher and find out when he's meeting with Dexter Morgan. Everybody get some breakfast, it's gonna be a hell of a day." She nodded to her team who all glanced around at each other, shifting under the silence. "Any questions?"

Camille piped up, "Yeah I've got one!" She turned her gaze on Kirsten wickedly. "Since when does Kirsten have a boyfriend?!"

"Boyfriend?" Cameron squeaked, whipping around to face Kirsten with undisguised disappointment.

Kirsten replied curtly, "I think Maggie meant any _relevant_ questions."

"Correct," Maggie agreed. "Get to work."

The group began to disperse, but Maggie turned back and added, "Camille, let's talk in my office."

Linus snickered, but then he turned to Cameron and mouthed ' _B_ _oyfriend?'  
_

Cameron shrugged, dropping his gaze.

* * *

"How's Harrison's sleeping pattern?" The gentle black woman clicked her pen, running down her clipboard.

"Same," Dexter said, interlacing his fingers. "Unfortunately, he cries about three times a night."

Harrison played animatedly with toy airplanes on the carpet of the therapist's office. These private sessions were mandated by Deb who believed Harrison (and Dexter too) could benefit from careful observation and clinical psychological help after being found in a pool of his mother's blood.

"Have you noticed any particular stressors in his environment? Anything that may have changed since the incident?" She asked questions in an unassuming way, writing softly on Harrison's chart.

"Well, we haven't been staying in the house, it just doesn't feel right without Rita," Dexter said, pausing for dramatic effect, taking a moment to make eye contact with the professional. _See, I'm deeply sad, I'm lost without her._ "We've been crashing at his Aunt Deb's for the past few days, which really hasn't been easy on anybody, least of all Deb."

The counselor chewed on this information for a moment. "I think you're doing everything you can, Dexter Morgan. Harrison will recover so long as you're there to console him and show him right from wrong. If you'd like, that can be all for today."

 _Ha,_ Dexter thought morbidly. _If you only knew..._

"Yes, thank you, doctor," he said, scooping up Harrison. _Glad that's over._ "C'mon, lil' buddy!" _Time to make sure Daddy doesn't get caught doing what he does best._

Once Dexter had Harrison secured in his car seat, he fished the business card out of his pocked that Laguerta had given to him at Rita's funeral, staring at it. _What do they know already, these detectives from the Stitch lab?_ Dexter felt a familiar panic welling up in his chest and the pit of his stomach. He tried to organize the facts in his head so that he could reassure himself he hadn't missed anything, that there was nothing that could tie him back to Arthur Mitchell, but in truth, he had been uncharacteristically sloppy in his handling of the Trinity Killer out of a misguided adoration and respect for the man. A man who had since been chopped to tiny pieces on Dexter's table, who deserved it perhaps more than any who had come before him. But nobody could find out, so the investigation would stay dangerously open to revealing Dexter's darkness, his secret life, the bodies of his victims.

It all started when he thought Mitchell had unlocked some secret to maintaining the balance of his dark passenger and an ordinary life, and that Dexter thought he could learn from Mitchell how to better embrace his own dark passenger and integrate it into his life.

Dexter slammed his fist down on his steering wheel, causing Harrison to fuss. _That bastard._ _If only I had realized sooner he was every bit as cruel and cold and unfeeling as the others I've killed before him._

 _Then there would be no Kyle Butler, my loose end._ Dexter had appeared to Mitchell and his family when first vetting him as a potential kill target using the alias Kyle Butler, a risk that Dexter wouldn't ordinarily take. That became Dexter's biggest mistake. Mitchell's wife, son, and daughter could identify him, and that would mean the end for Dexter.

 _Imagine, little wild-tempered Jonah, pointing the finger at blood-spatter-analyst me and screaming, "That's Kyle Butler! That's him right there! You lied to us!" while Deb and the detectives at Miami Homicide stare on in horror, as the gears finally click and they realize I'm a monster, the monster who kills monsters, but a monster nonetheless._

 _Fuck, fuck, FUCK._

* * *

"Right, only relevant questions from here on out, I get it," Camille began formulating her defense. "Spare me the lecture."

Maggie crossed her arms and in a hushed tone simply said, "Boyfriend?"

Camille laughed. "Oh so the Magster likes to dish! Okay, so his name is Liam, and he is drop-dead-delicious."

"What do you know about him?" Maggie quizzed, unaffected.

Camille shrugged and shook her head. "Nothing! He just showed up at our door this morning like a little slice of heaven! Meanwhile, Kirsten has _never_ mentioned him."

"Okay, find out everything you can about him, I want a full report," Maggie said conclusively, and began to preoccupy herself with other work.

"Actually, I'm not comfortable with that-" Camille began to protest.

Maggie stopped and stared at Camille. She could be very intimidating when she wanted to be. "Excuse me?"

"Well when you first recruited me to spy on Kirsten we weren't-"

"What, friends? We pay you to complete your assignments which right now is to vett Liam, not to 'spy' on Kirsten, but to protect her."

Camille shifted uncomfortably. Maggie took that as a sign that the conversation was over and dismissed Camille with the flick of her wrist.

 _Stone-cold bitch,_ Camille thought bitterly as she stormed out of Maggie's office.

* * *

The detectives at Miami Metro Homicide poured into the station that morning. Morale was low, but that didn't stop Joey Quinn from approaching Deb's desk to ask her about yesterday's sexcapade.

"Hey, Deb," he said as walked up cautiously, trying to gauge her mood.

"Quinn," she said, pulling herself together. With Dexter and Harrison crashing at her apartment, her stress levels were high. "What can I do for you?"

He sat down opposite her across the desk. "Just like that, huh?" He said, grinning.

"What are you talking about?" She didn't look him in the eyes.

"You don't want to talk about it? About yesterday, and what happened?" He prodded.

"No. Nothing happened. Just forget about it," she said tensely, shuffling some files around on her desk. "So if you could please, just let me-"

"I get it, Deb, it's weird, we had sex," Quinn said, his voice a hushed whisper.

"No, Quinn, I really don't think you do." She stood up and sauntered off, leaving him sitting there, dumbfounded.

Deb burst into Dexter's lab to talk to him, but found only Masuka, who was visibly startled by her sudden entry, whirling around from his microscope with a guilty expression.

"Hey, Masuka, have you seen Dexter?"

Masuka relaxed a little. "Oh, he had a meeting with some detective on the Trinity case. Real pressing stuff. Said he needed me to cover for him til he got back. Typical Dexter."

"Great, thanks," Deb said irritably. She stormed out of the lab.

* * *

Fisher sat in his office at the Miami Police Department Classified Division, twirling a pencil, his feet propped up on the desk as he poured over a case file that read _Ed Clark_ in bold print at the top. He had images of Kirsten and her house, a house that once belonged to the late Ed Clark, paperclipped to crime scene photos. Fisher had been assigned to investigate Ed's death which is what had lead him to Kirsten in the first place. He recounted the events of that day, trying to piece together some answers.

 _Kirsten didn't react at all when I told her Ed Clark had died,_ Fisher thought. _But now that I've gotten to know her, she doesn't feel things like ordinary people do, but she has great intuition - and she refused to believe that Ed's death was a suicide._ He dropped his feet back to the floor and bent forward over his desk, staring at Ed's lifeless body in the photographs. _I'm starting to think she's right. This whole thing goes a lot deeper than I originally thought._

Initially, Fisher had begun investigating Kirsten as a suspect, because of her unusual behavior and uncanny ability to know things she shouldn't know - that was, until he found out about the Stitcher's program. It gave Kirsten an alibi for most of her mysterious life. Fisher still wanted to dig deeper; for starters, Ed Clark wasn't Kirsten's real father. Her real father had been a lead scientist on the Stitchers technology when it was first developed, and Kirsten had been groomed for the program from a young age before her father's disappearance.

Just then, Fisher's cell lit up with an incoming call. He didn't recognize the number.

"Detective Fisher," he answered, tapping his pencil on the desk.

"Hello," came the eerie calm voice on the other end, "This is Dexter Morgan."

Fisher perked up. "Ah! Just the man I need to see. Can we get together today?"

Dexter hesitated. "Um, yeah, sure. Of course. How's eight o'clock sound?"

"Sure, whatever works for you," Fisher said, making a note. "Where at?"

A mischievous grin played on Dexter's face. "How about Chinese?"

"Chinese?" Fisher's brow furrowed. _This guy is sharp - did he already figure out where the Stitch lab headquarters are? Jeez, I gotta be careful. This guy could be dangerous._

"Yeah," Dexter said innocently. "I've been wanting to go to this little place in the city, it's called Jade Fog. You heard of it?"

"Uh," Fisher said, rubbing his brow. "Yeah. Okay, Jade Fog at eight o'clock. I'll see you there."

"Sounds good."

"Thanks for calling, Mr. Morgan."

"Please," Dexter smiled, "call me Dexter. I'll see you later."

Fisher hung up his phone and laid it back on his desk. He sighed, mulling over Dexter's bizarre behavior, his mind wandering to the details of the Trinity Killer case that was now the responsibility of the Stitcher's team. The pattern indicated by the investigation Ted Lundy scraped together before his murder was detailed in the case file marked 'Trinity Killer' that was also in the stack of work on Fisher's desk. _Dexter is a player in this game, I just can't prove it yet._

Minutes later, his phone rang again. He checked the display: Kirsten Clark.

"Detective Fisher," he said, relaxing back into his office chair.

"Hey Fisher, it's me," Kirsten began, "I know you're on some sort of, um, agency thing, but I was right, and you were wrong. Ed Clark didn't commit suicide, he was murdered."

Fisher sat straight up in his chair. "Kirsten, we can't talk about this over the phone, I'll have to meet with you in person," he said sternly, a tinge of worry in his voice. "I'll head down to the lab once I finish up my work here."

"Okay," Kirsten said flatly. "We're about to stitch into Rita again. After that, Cameron and I are going to Arthur Mitchell's house to interview his family. We're trying to connect Rita Morgan to the Trinity Killer."

"What?!" Fisher shouted. "Please tell me Maggie is accompanying you. We can't risk jeopardizing a case this big."

"Enough with the lectures," Kirsten said, unamused. "Yes, but after that Maggie will be busy meeting with Lez Turner - who, as you now know, has been withholding information about the Ed Clark case and is probably involved in the 'suicide' cover up. But we've got this, don't worry about us."

Fisher sighed. "Alright. Be careful. Don't do anything stupid."

"Goodbye detective," Kirsten said with a dose of sarcasm.

Hanging up his phone and tossing it back on his desk, Fisher pulled the Trinity Killer case file from the stack of files and spread it out beside the Ed Clark file, studying the two cases with a serious expression. _What does Lez Turner know that he isn't telling us?_

After a while, a knock on his office door made Fisher look up suddenly. "Come in," he said loud enough that the knocker could hear.

A familiar office page peeked in, extending an envelope addressed to 'The Office of Detective Quincy Fisher' in his direction. He smiled and thanked her, taking the envelope, and she darted back out of the door, heading back to her post. Fisher pried into the letter, pouring over the official document.

He was being transferred to Miami Metro's Homicide Unit effective immediately to continue his work on the Ed Clark investigation. Enclosed were the details of his office and transfer. He was to report to Sergeant Batista or Lieutenant Laguerta before the end of the day to get acquainted. Fisher ran a hand through his hair. _What a fucking day!_

* * *

"Alright," Cameron said, waltzing into the lab, affixing his headset to his ear and lightly tapping the microphone. "Time for Round 2."

"Remember," Fisher said to Kirsten as she was climbing into the tank, "We need answers about Arthur Mitchell. Clues to where he might be headed, anything that could help us predict where he's going to strike next."

"Got it," Kirsten replied, lounging back against the headrest.

"Lights at 20 percent," Cameron ordered; a technician lowered the lights.

"Inducing stitch neurosync on my mark," he shouted, taking his position behind the main controls. "Three...Two...One...Mark!" He pushed both levers forward and Kirsten was flushed into the brain of Rita Morgan for the second time this week.

Everything was blurry, spinning. Snippets of conversations. Dexter's voice, and how it struck a chord within Rita, how much she loved him, adored him. A warm tingle swelled up in Kirsten's body - a mix of love, jealousy, maybe even guilt. It was quickly overwhelming her; she didn't know how to process the sensations.

"I'm gonna throw you right into the point of death," Cameron's voice sounded apologetic on the other end of the communications line. "You ready, stretch?"

"Yeah, please, I can't focus here," Kirsten said, closing her eyes. When she opened them, she was there in the kitchen of the Morgan family home. Bills on the counter were addressed to _3319 Meadow Lane_. "I'm inside the kitchen," Kirsten said absently.

The lock on door rattled, and then the door opened and Rita walked in, holding her son, Harrison. She put her purse down, carrying Harrison into the bedroom to look for her I.D. "Rita's here with Harrison. She feels like something isn't right," Kirsten said, raising a hand to her temple. Stitching came naturally to Kirsten but even for her it was difficult to maintain clarity inside the memory. Rita walked back into the kitchen, Harrison on her hip, still on the search for the missing I.D. Suddenly, Rita heard a noise - running water. Kirsten, having stitched into this memory before, watched Rita go unknowingly into the arms of Arthur Mitchell, Trinity Killer.

Kirsten held her breath. _Here he comes._

Rita stepped cautiously towards the bathroom door that hung slightly ajar. She pushed it open with one arm, holding Harrison still in the other. Inside, the mirrored cabinet hung open, and the bathtub faucet was running water at full force. She reached up and shut the cabinet, but at once screamed, for in the reflection could be seen a fully naked older man, wild eyed and murderous, standing in wait for her in the bathroom of her home.

"She sees him," Kirsten blurted out breathlessly, her heart racing frantically in rhythm with Rita's as Arthur Mitchell clasped his grimy hands around her mouth and neck, stifling her scream, and forced her out of her clothes and into the bathtub in an oddly practiced routine. He reached over, picked up the razor blade, and plunged his hand under the water in the tub. The slice caused Rita and Kirsten to shout out in unison, and Cameron's quick, worried response felt strangely out of place; "You okay, stretch?"

Kirsten stepped closer to the bath, staring hard at the sick bastard who clung pathetically to Rita's thrashing body as blood filled the tub. He held up the hand mirror to watch as Rita began to fade. "Kirsten?" Cameron said, panic growing in his voice.

Kirsten reached forward and touched Rita, grabbing her hand, wishing she could pull her out of this awful bloody tub, this fucked up ending. Instead, Kirsten was pulled down into Rita's consciousness, and the room spun rapidly. Kirsten surged with pain, thrashing inside the tank at the Stitch lab. "Her vitals are all over the place!" The nurse said over the communications panel.

"Kirsten!" Cameron shouted.

"I'm okay," she replied, shielding her eyes from the light. Sunlight. She was inside a different memory.

"I'm outside," she said, her voice detached. Dexter smiled up at her from the lawn, and it was like the clouds parted around him. Rita walked up and gave him Harrison to hold, and he held him up and smiled proudly. _Dexter really loves Harrison_ , Kirsten and Rita thought.

"Outside?" Cameron gave the others a confused look. Camille laughed and swirled her finger beside her temple, the universal sign for crazy.

Rita was experiencing her life flashing before her eyes, and so was Kirsten. Scenes from all stages of her life, and intimate experiences with all of her lovers - it was overwhelming. Kirsten cried alongside Rita in her final moments. And that was it, suddenly she was back in the tub with a violent man, the disgusting reality of her conclusion dawning on her, and Kirsten felt Rita's electric-hot anger pour over her, a rage so deep she thought it might split open her chest. Angry at her helplessness, and the injustice, and this man, this fucking stranger.

And then Arthur leaned in close, a detail Kirsten hadn't observed previously, and whispered in Rita's ear: "Dexter's next."

* * *

Maria Laguerta sat in her office, combing through police reports and finalizing closed cases with her stamp of approval, when the tall, dark, and handsome Detective Fisher sauntered into her office, a box of files and office supplies under one arm, his other hand reaching to adjust his tie as he approached.

"Hello, I'm Detective Quincy Fisher," he said, extending a hand to shake hers. Laguerta accepted with a smile and nod.

"Yes, we've been expecting you, detective," she stood up from her seat, leading him back out of her office. He followed dutifully. Deb looked up from her desk in the main office as Laguerta lead him to his own desk among the other homicide detectives. Deb recognized him immediately, and watched scrupulously as Laguerta gave him the long-winded spiel she saved for new recruits, going over expectations, rules, codes of conduct, human resources, and facilities. After she seemed to be wrapping things up, Deb took her cue.

"Detective Fisher?" She called out to him, standing up from behind her desk and running over to where Laguerta was familiarizing Fisher with his new workspace.

Fisher set his box of things down on his desk, looking up at Deb with a smile. "Debra Morgan!" He greeted her warmly.

Laguerta's suspicious gaze swapped between Deb and Fisher. "You two have already met, I take it?" She raised an eyebrow at Deb.

"Uh, yeah," Deb started defensively, "He came in here the other day to ask questions about the Trinity Killer case." She turned her attention to Fisher. "Aren't you a detective for the FBI? What are you doing here?"

"Yes, I am assigned field work for a specialized criminal justice department that is federally regulated," Fisher said, wording his answer carefully to not raise Laguerta's suspicion.

Deb was unphased. "What about that thing you told me and Dexter, that team that takes dead-"

"I brought all my case files with me when I transferred - I'm assuming I'm expected to finish up my work on these unclosed files while helping out with the homicide department here in Miami as much as I can. I did a lot of homicide detective work during my time in the classified department." Fisher cut her off, shooting her a look that said _shut-the-fuck-up_ _-please_.

Deb smirked, catching on. She crossed her arms and just said, "Oh, hmm. So you're working with us now?"

"He's been transferred here because he's a good cop," Laguerta said, "But he's been known to find himself at odds with his superiors." She stared Fisher down for a moment, who shifted uncomfortably. "I suppose you'll need a partner, won't you," She said in a cheery tone, changing the subject. Fisher relaxed, unpacking his case files and loading them into the drawers of his new desk in the central headquarters of Miami Metro Homicide Unit.

"I suppose I will," he smiled.

* * *

Kirsten hung up her phone and sauntered back around the side of the car where colleagues Cameron and Maggie were waiting for her.

"What was that all about?" Maggie pried, shooting Kirsten a cryptic look. Cameron raised his eyebrows.

"I called Fisher, it was about Ed Clark. So, are we going in?" She nodded towards the family home of Trinity Killer Arthur Mitchell.

"This situation requires tact and discretion," Maggie cautioned the two rookies.

"Maybe you should wait outside," Cameron teased at Kirsten, ribbing her.

"Maybe you should bite me," Kirsten shot back.

The three of them strolled up to the porch and rang the doorbell on the Mitchell family home. Sally, the Trinity Killer's wife, opened the door nervously. Her wild eyes scanned the trio. Maggie smiled politely.

"Hello, Mrs. Mitchell, we're here on official business, can we ask you a couple questions?" Maggie said pleasantly, displaying her badge and trying to seem warm. Kirsten and Cameron smiled too, playing along. The woman cracked the door open wider and allowed them into the house.

Seated on the sofa was Arthur's son, Jonah, and daughter, Rebecca, who exchanged a worried glance when the team walked into the room. Their mom gestured for Kirsten, Maggie, and Cameron to have a seat opposite them on the loveseat and chairs. Sally sat in the furthest chair and wrapped her shawl up around her shivering shoulders.

"Well?" She said snidely. "We've been through this a dozen times now. Let's get it over with," Sally started. Jonah, his hair cropped short, ran his hands over his head and let out a sigh, dropping his eyes to the floor. Rebecca just stared at Cameron like she'd never seen a man before, barely blinking.

"I'm so sorry to put you through this again," Maggie said sympathetically. "I'm Maggie Baptiste, and these are my assistants Kirsten Clark and Cameron Goodkin."

Mrs. Mitchell pointed to her children. "This is Jonah, my boy, and Rebecca, our sweet girl. My name's Sally. What can we do for you?"

"Sally," Maggie began calmly, "do you have any idea where your husband might be?"

Sally rolled her eyes. "I'll tell you the same thing I've been telling the police and the detectives. I wish I did! He just left."

Jonah scoffed. Kirsten shot him a look and their eyes met. Jonah immediately looked away again.

"Was there anything suspicious prior to his disappearance?"

Sally, Jonah, and Rebecca exchanged a look. "No," Sally said. "Nothing unusual."

Maggie wasn't deterred. "We have the sketches of the friend who appeared in Arthur's life mere weeks before his disappearance - this man," she said, pulling out the three sketches and leafing through them so everyone could see, "Kyle Butler." She spread the images out on the coffee table. "Now tell me, who was he?"

Sally sighed. "Kyle Butler was a friend he met doing construction volunteer work for local shelter groups. He would probably know more about Arthur's whereabouts than any of us." Her voice was shaking slightly, from nerves or rage or both.

Maggie collected the sketches and put them back in her folder. "And do you have any idea where we can find Kyle Butler?"

The wife shrugged dismissively. "No. Now is that all?" She got to her feet.

Maggie reluctantly stood up, and Cameron and Kirsten followed suit. "We'll be in touch. Thank you."

The three of them hustled out of the eerie Mitchell homestead and back towards their cars. Maggie smiled at the two of them briefly and exhaled. "Well, we need more info on Kyle Butler, and that was a dead end," she said flatly. "I'm out of ideas. We need to find Kyle Butler, so we can find Arthur Mitchell."

"So," Cameron said, unlocking his car so he could toss his jacket inside, "We head back to the lab?"

Maggie shook her head. "No, that's all for today. Good work. We'll pick up tomorrow. I'm afraid we're at a standstill on this case. Don't get emotionally attached," she said, looking at Kirsten. "I'll see you both in the morning." She got into her car and drove away.

Cameron and Kirsten looked at each other in disbelief. Cameron cracked a smile and opened up the passenger door for Kirsten to get inside. She stepped into the car, getting comfortable in the seat as Cameron strolled around to the driver's side, hopping in and starting the engine.

"Do you want to stop by the store or anything on your way home?" Cameron asked casually as he buckled his seat belt and adjusted the air settings.

"Actually, there is one thing I wanted to do," Kirsten said airily, remembering the sensation she had felt yesterday before stitching into Rita for the first time; remembering how Rita reminded her of her mom and visions of their time together she had from childhood.

"Yeah, anything," Cameron said enthusiastically, "You name it."

* * *

"Jeez, even his passport picture is delicious," Camille said out loud to herself. She flipped through the pages which were littered with stamps. "Wow, world traveler," she remarked, clicking her tongue. She pulled his tablet out of his bag and started going through the recent photos, all of him in humanitarian projects or soccer games or meeting mayors. "Seriously? Is this guy for real?"

Just then, Liam opened their front door, sweaty from a run, eyes bright. Camille spun around, stuffing the tablet back into his bag, trying her best to play it off casually.

"Oh hi! It's Liam, right?" She said in her overly cheery voice. "I'm Camille, we kind of met earlier unofficially."

"Well, it's nice to meet you officially," he said, sounding genuine.

"Out for a little run, I see," Camille smiled, gesturing to his sweaty muscle tee and running shorts.

"Yeah!" He replied, mopping his face with his shirt. "Just a short one today, the hills around here are a challenge."

Camille eyed his abs hungrily when he lifted his shirt. "Um, can I get you anything? A drink?"

"Sure, tap's alright," Liam said, collecting some of his things and running hands through his hair. "Thanks again for letting me stay here, this place is like a palace compared to where I've been staying the past year," he called from the living room as she filled his glass with water from the faucet.

"Oh yeah? Which is where exactly?" She said casually, handing him the drink. He greedily took a few sips before answering.

"A hut in Peru, and before that, a yurt in Southeast Asia."

"A yurt? By choice?" Camille teased. "Why?!"

"Well, I am a cultural anthropologist, so I need to immerse myself in different ways of life so I can contribute something positive to the local community." He smiled up at her. "And you?"

"Me?" Camille laughed. "Oh I don't do anything to help mankind, I'm completely self-absorbed. So where does Kirsten fit in all your good-doing?"

Liam hesitated. "She... doesn't. At least not the way I'd like her to." He set his glass of water down on the table, sinking into a chair to untie his shoes.

Camille raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"We met three years ago, I've asked her on a few trips, but she has her own goals of course. So we ended up spending a lot of time apart." He said, sadness creeping into his voice.

"That's terrible." Camille didn't know what to say.

Liam pepped back up, though, continuing: "Fortunately, time doesn't mean anything to her so we just pick up where she left off. I love that about her. Don't you? She lives in the moment, as we all should."

"Yep," Camille said through gritted teeth. "Just one of the things that makes Kirsten so _damn_ loveable!"

* * *

Cameron and Kirsten pulled up to the cemetery where Kirsten's mother was buried. The air was still as the sun was going down, and they were pretty much alone in the waning light and silence of the graveyard. Cameron shut his car door quietly and walked around to Kirsten's side as she was stepping out.

"I'll let you be alone," Cameron said, gently touching her arm. Kirsten shook her head.

"No, come with me, Cameron," she said softly, although emotionless.

He tucked his hands into his pockets and trailed behind her as they walked under the roofed mausoleum, and Kirsten didn't need to look for her mother's name among the deceased listed on the wall; she went straight to her mother's plaque, having visited here many times.

Kirsten's mind went back to when her adoptive-dad Ed Clark had brought her here to mourn her mother, but she couldn't feel anything. Much like she couldn't now.  
She reached out to touch the portrait of her mother that hung below her bold-print name and lifespan, to touch her mother's face.  
She felt something.  
Not emotionally, physically, _felt_ something. A click within the small picture frame, like there was some kind of mechanism inside.

"Cameron?" Kirsten said over her shoulder.

"Yeah," he said, stepping forward to stand beside her. "What's wrong?"

She pried at the picture frame - it budged slightly. Cameron glanced at her. "What are you doing?"

"I swear, I heard something latch, or unlatch, when I touched her picture," Kirsten said, still pushing at the edges of the photograph. Suddenly, it spun upwards on an axis, revealing a small hole that it had been concealing, inside which was a tiny envelope.

Kirsten snatched the envelope out triumphantly, holding it up to observe it. "Ed must have left this for me," she said speculatively.

Cameron stared in disbelief. "What is it?"

She popped open the tabs on the envelope and dumped its contents into her palm: a small bronze key.

"A key," she said, puzzled. "But to what?"

Cameron chuckled darkly. "The mystery continues."

* * *

"What do we got?" Angel Batista said to Joey Quinn as he walked up to the crime scene that evening. Being officially unassigned from the Trinity Killer case meant the detectives were eagerly checking into the fresh unsolved murders the city of Miami had to offer.

Quinn dismissed the paramedic he'd been talking to. "Um, we've... got a head."

"A head?" Batista said, almost laughing.

"Yeah, just the head, a clean decapitation. Probably some kind of drug killing."

"Nice." "Hey let me ask you a question. Hypothetical. Say you're newly married, and you accidentally discover your spouse has a savings account with a whole lot of money. Is that something you're expected to share?"

Quinn looked around to make sure no one was listening, and lowered his voice to say, "Fuck, no. That's your money. You tell the lieutenant to keep her fucking hands off it."

Batista hesitated. _Damn._ "Take me to the head."

"Alright," Quinn smiled. "This way."

Quinn and Batista caught up to Deb and Masuka who were busy detailing the crime scene.

"She was still alive when they cut her heard off," Masuka began. "Excision of the tongue and eyes was post-mortem."

"You were right," Batista said, kinda laughing. "She's just a head."

Quinn cracked a smile.

"Yeah, unless they buried her standing up," Deb said with a chuckle.

Batista bent down to examine the decapitated head, and Quinn took the opportunity to tuck in a loose piece of Deb's shirt into her slacks, to which she replied by swatting his hand away.

"What are you doing?" She barked at him under her breath.

"What! I was trying to help out, you're looking a lil' ragged," Quinn teased playfully.

"I'm exhausted," Deb agreed, "with Dexter and Harrison staying at my apartment I can't get any sleep."

"You know, you're welcome to crash at my place, if you want." Quinn offered, smiling.

His charm was hard to deny, but Deb was in denial. "Um, no thanks, detective."

"Okay," he said, putting his hands up defensively and removing himself from the conversation.

"So do we got an I.D. on her yet?" Batista stood up, brushing himself off.

"Not yet," Deb said, "But we've sent samples of DNA off to be analyzed."

"Do we at least have a team looking for the rest of her body?" Batista said, rubbing a thick hand across his brow.

"Yes sir," Quinn replied, "We're about to go join the search party and let the medics do the wrap and clean-up here."

"One second," Deb said, leaning forward and snapping a shot with her camera. "I need a few photos of this crime scene before we pack up."

* * *

Cameron and Linus sat at Cameron's industrial-suite apartment, Linus on his laptop. Cameron had promised to keep Kirsten's key-discovery a secret; she had demanded it before getting out of the car when he dropped her off at her house, and Cameron honestly couldn't say no to her - just like he couldn't say no when she had dragged him to a shoe store after visiting her mother's grave and refused to tell him why she needed five-hundred-dollar boots. Now he was lamenting to Linus about Liam, Kirsten's mysterious boyfriend, as he cooked dinner for the two of them.

"I mean, who has time to research social and cultural phenomena around the world, _and_ work out," Cameron said, ranting.

"What's his last name?" Linus prompted.

"Granger," Cameron said quickly, wiping his hands on his apron, "Liam Granger."

Linus scrolled through a few social media platforms before reaching his conclusion. "Well?!" Cameron prodded impatiently, opening the oven to peek in at the food baking inside.

"Everything checks out, man," Linus frowned at his pal. "He's this, like, humanitarian-athlete guy. See for yourself," he said, spinning the laptop around.

The oven timer went off. _Ding ding!_ "Oh!" said Cameron, "That's our food."

"Screw the food, you know what we need?" Linus said, sensing his friend's gloom.

"To do a thousand sit-ups and start a foundation for starving children?" Cameron said bleakly, referring to Liam.

"We need a real bro night!" Linus's face lit up. Cameron stared at him blankly. "C'mon, man, when's the last time we had a real bro night, just me, you, some beer, some video games, junk food, and bad kung fu movies. What do you say?"

Cameron smiled warmly. "Thank, man. Yeah," he said, laughing. "That sounds good."

* * *

Back at her house, Kirsten opened the door to see Camille and Liam casually making conversation in the kitchen. Camille leaned back to get a view of the doorway and waved with a big grin, "Hey Kirsten!"

"Hey guys," Kirsten closed the door behind her and strolled into the kitchen. Liam promptly kissed her on the cheek, spatula in hand. Kirsten fetched the bag from the shoe store and offered it to Camille who seemed confused for a second, but the realization dawn on her. "No," Camille began, tearing into the package and pulling out the very same boots she had lusted over earlier after her shower.

"The boots?! From you?! For me?! _Shut up!_ " Camille squealed, rubbing one of the boots on her cheek.

"You said you wanted them," Kirsten said matter-of-factly.

"Want them? I want to marry them, but they're way, way too expensive! I can't-you shouldn't have-"

"It's fine," Kirsten said, smiling. "Liam fixed the water heater, which saved us a bunch of money, so it's fine, trust me."

"Okay," Camille said, grinning back at her friend. "I know you're not a hugger, but-" She embraced Kirsten tightly, who awkwardly let the hug happen to her.

"And _you_ ," Camille said, pointing a boot at Liam as he finished the dish he was preparing, "Thank _you_ handsome! For the water heater, and for making Kirsten more awesome than she already - was? is? Are those fried cheesy rice balls?"

Liam smirked, offering the plate of cheesy rice balls, each with its own toothpick. Camille took one with a wink. "Gimme your balls."

Suddenly, Kirsten's phone rang. She stepped into the next room to answer it with some privacy - it was detective Fisher.

"Hello?" She answered.

"Kirsten, hey, it's Fisher. Can you and Camille come back me up on this interview with Dexter Morgan?"

Kirsten's eyes lit up. "Yes, of course, we'll be right there."

"But I didn't tell you where it was at!" Fisher laughed.

Kirsten shook her head in annoyance, sighing with a small laugh. "Where's it at?"

"The Stitch Lab. Well, the Jade Fog."

"Wait," Kirsten said, thinking that over. "Is he on to us?"

"He knows about what we do, he's got to be curious. I'm sure he's been doing some research of his own. We have to find out how much he knows."

"Alright. We'll meet you there."

Kirsten came back into the kitchen; Camille was trying on her new boots, Liam was cleaning up the dishes he had dirtied to make the rice balls.

"Fisher just called, he wants me and you to go with him to interview Dext-"

"Haha, whoa, girl talk!" Camille said, cutting her off with a nervous glance at Liam, who seemed instantly suspicious. "Sorry about that, just one sec," she said, grabbing Kirsten's arm and dragging her into the living room.

"Fisher wants us to come with him to interview Dexter Morgan?" Camille said in a rushed whisper.

"Yeah, we need to go, like now," Kirsten said in a regular voice, gathering her things. Liam, overhearing, walked into the room.

"Is everything okay?" He said, crossing his arms.

Kirsten and Camille exchanged a glance. "No," Kirsten piped up, "Camille and I - we, uh, we work at a company, one that creates video games." Camille nodded enthusiastically in agreement. "I just realized there's a major glitch in one of the levels."

"We have to go reprogram," Camille said with a defeated laugh.

"Can dinner wait?" Kirsten said with a frown.

Liam looked taken aback. "You're gonna leave me again," he said flatly. Kirsten sighed.

"It's just a game!" He said, exasperated.

"A very important game," she said, kissing him on the cheek. Liam didn't budge; his face was tense, upset.

Camille followed Kirsten out, and Liam could overhear her saying, "I mean, these boots are like, really - who needs a man?" before the door shut behind them.

* * *

"Is that what this is about?" Dexter Morgan said, his voice a menacing whisper. Fisher and Camille looked at each other nervously on the other side of the interrogation table. They shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Kirsten was undaunted, unshaken. She maintained her fierce eye contact with Dexter, who seemed unafraid to glare back.

Dexter slammed both fists down, his temper flaring. Camille gasped. "Are you fucking serious?" Dexter shouted. "Are you suggesting I have anything to do with my wife's death? That I would slice her artery, let her bleed out in the bathtub-"

"Mr. Morgan, please," said Fisher, exchanging a wide-eyed look with Camille.  
"We know that you were at Arthur Mitchell's house," Kirsten said quickly, her tone very grave.

Dexter froze. They know about my involvement with the Trinity Killer and his family? His thoughts raced. If they find out I had Arthur Mitchell on my table that evening-

"At the time of your wife's death," She elaborated, prompted by his silence. "You were at Arthur Mitchell's house." Dexter felt his heartbeat quickening, but he kept his composure cool. _Yes, but how much do you know?_ Dexter thought.

"You were part of the team that raided Arthur Mitchell's house, Mr. Morgan. We know you didn't kill your wife," Fisher said, his voice steady. "We're just looking for a reason Arthur Mitchell might have targeted your wife."

Dexter shrugged. "Because he's a serial killer?" _Because of me,_ he thought. "I don't know, I'm sorry I can't be of more help to you guys," Dexter said. "Are there any further questions?"

"Not at this time," Fisher said, getting to his feet and extending a hand for Dexter to shake. Kirsten and Camille stood also, smoothing their clothes. Dexter watched their body language carefully, but he couldn't read them.

 _Did they believe me?_

After the interview, Fisher, Camille, and Kirsten compared mental notes outside the restaurant. "He has to know more than he's letting on. He did something to provoke the Trinity Killer, that's why he wanted Rita to leave for the honeymoon, where she'd be safe," Fisher said, thinking out loud. "If she would have made her flight, she'd be alive."

"Dexter was acting really defensive," Camille noted. "He seemed to be coming from a place of guilt rather than loss."

"Do you think that this Kyle Butler guy is related to Dexter?" Kirsten said, tilting her head. "You know, the one we're all trying to find but nobody knows who he really is?"

Camille and Fisher shrugged. "I don't know," Fisher said. "I feel like we're stuck on this one. Someone's not telling us what we need to know, and so we're spinning our wheels here." He nodded to the two girls and waved goodnight. "Thanks for coming out. We'll get together tomorrow to continue this," he said, hopping into his car.

Kirsten got into Camille's car, and the pair drove back to their house, unaware they were being tailed.

Dexter stayed a safe distance away from their car, but he had to know more about this Stitchers mystery. _That's definitely the same girl from the restaurant the other day,_ Dexter thought as he trailed Kirsten. _The Stitcher_...

They pulled up to their house and parked before they went inside. Dexter's car was parked in a shadowy space across the street. He picked up his binoculars.

 _Who are you, Kirsten Clark?_

* * *

Detective Joey Quinn opened up the door to his swanky apartment and smiled at his partner Debra Morgan.

"Hey," he started. "I'm glad you called." He leaned in to kiss her but she backed up into the hallway.

"Hey fuckpuddle what are you doing?!" Deb swore at him, flaring up.

"Just giving you a kiss hello," he retaliated innocently, stepping aside to let her come in.

"I came over here to sleep, not to have your fat little sausage fingers all over me," Deb spit out, disgusted.

Quinn chuckled.

"There's no room for me at my own place unless I want to curl up inside the toaster oven," Deb said, relaxing as she plopped down on his couch. Quinn shut the door and latched it.

"I'm really trying to be a good sister because we all know Dexter's always been the best brother but... it is fucking exhausting." She sprawled out on the sofa.

"I'm sure," Quinn said. "Well, look, you're welcome to stay here for as long as you want, as often as you want, and I promise to keep my fat little sausage fingers off you." He wiggled his fingers at her.

"You better." Deb smiled.

Quinn handed Deb a pillow and blanket. "How's your brother?"

"You know," She said, pulling the blanket up over her.

"I heard the FBI interview went well, that has to be a load off," Quinn said.

"Why would that be a load off?" Deb shot back.

"Nothing, nevermind," Quinn laughed.

"They're looking for someone named Kyle Butler who's a friend of Arthur Mitchell's. They think if they can find him he can lead them to Mitchell." Deb slid her jeans off underneath the blanket and tossed them into the floor.

Quinn scoffed. "Let me guess, they can't find him."

"Not yet, but they got sketches done, trying to get a positive I.D." Deb replied.

"Kyle Butler, now why does that name sound so familiar?" Quinn pondered.

Deb gestured with her right hand, putting in her retainer with her left. "Well that's the weird thing, we worked that case, remember? A dead Kyle Butler?"

Quinn remembered suddenly. "Right, he got his head smashed in! Went unsolved. Any connection?"

"I don't know, I'm sure the FBI will find a way to fuck it up." She pulled the blanket up around her, snuggling into his couch. "Will you get the lights?"

"Yes ma'am." The living room went dark.

* * *

Maggie stood properly in her office with the stuffy Lez Turner, his silver hair coiffed up.

"So what did you find on Liam?" Lez pried. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"I had Camille check his credentials. They all check out," Maggie said. "Perfectly."

"Too perfectly?" Lez said, raising an eyebrow.

"A year ago, Liam was awarded an NSF post-doctorate fellowship in emerging third-world countries," Maggie began.

"Impressive," Lez retorted.

"Worrisome," Maggie continued. "Here's a photo of him receiving the award." She handed over her tablet.

Lez zoomed in on a man in the background, standing behind Liam to the left. "You think it's _him_."

"It's hard to tell from the picture, but my gut says yes, and if there's even a chance," Maggie said, trailing off.

"I'll take care of it," Lez said, smiling professionally. "You-"

"I'll keep an eye on Liam." Maggie said firmly.

Lez nodded, exiting her office.

* * *

Kirsten stood on her back porch, drinking a glass of wine, holding the key she had found in her mother's headstone out in front of her. The night was cool, and Kirsten's head was fuzzy from the eventful day. She didn't hear the door open behind her, or Liam's footsteps as he approached.

"What's that?"

Kirsten spun around. "A key to something."

"A key to what?" Liam smirked, stepping closer to her.

"I'm not quite sure yet," Kirsten said, putting the key in her pocket.

"Kirsten Clark," Liam said, laughing, "You continue to be an unexpected mystery to me. A beautiful one."

She smiled. "I mean it, Kirsten," he continued, "You're beautiful, just like this, no layers of make-up, no fancy dresses, just you."

"Thank you," Kirsten said, her voice lacking emotion.

"You may not feel it the way I do when we're apart," Liam said in a low voice, "But I know how right it feels when we're together."

"Me too," Kirsten said innocently.

Liam sunk to one knee, presenting a jewelry box. Inside, a ring.

Kirsten's mouth hung open.

"Will you marry me?"


End file.
